Chapter Thirty-Four

Later that evening Benoît and Alan sat with them around a table at Fauchon on the Place de la Madeleine. In front of them was one of the patisserie’s most decadent pastries, a cake in the shape of a pillowy mouth airbrushed bright raspberry red. Magda sighed mournfully as she cut off a bite.

“I am sorry”—Benoît shook his head—“but the law is very clear. Impeding an investigation is a serious offense. You must hand it over.”

Magda swallowed. “But we’re not impeding an investigation. The police have Cavill, but we also gave them the piece of string that suggests someone else could be the murderer. So they have all the evidence they need to continue to investigate from both angles. The knife is just extra.”

Benoît turned to face Magda, a lock of his hair falling over his forehead and the light glinting off his glasses. He gave her a sad smile. “Amour, the police will not share your reasoning. You may be correct in your thinking—certainly you are scrupulously logical—but the police will argue that any piece of evidence, at any stage, is important. And”—he tilted his head to one side—“we must admit that a piece of string found in a rubbish bin and a homemade weapon found near the scene of a crime are very different sorts of evidence.”

“Also,” Alan pointed out, “not handing in the eraser keeps Robert Cavill in police custody when he might not deserve it. And of course”—he flashed a smile of his own in Rachel’s direction—“it keeps Boussicault from knowing about the excellent detective work you did all on your own.”

Benoît frowned. “I think Docteure Cavill may have been released in any case.” He added hastily, “Although you should still hand in the evidence.”

“How do you mean, he may have been released?”

“Well, criminal law is not my area, but I do know that the police can only detain a suspect for forty-eight hours before they must bring him before a magistrate to request an extension. And no magistrate would agree to an extension based on the evidence you have described. Nothing shows clearly that Monsieur Cavill murdered anyone, and the theft of the page with the woodcut is a délit—what you would call a misdemeanor.” He said the last two words in English with an impeccable American accent. “He would probably be required to remain in the country and to check in at a police station regularly, but he wouldn’t be detained in custody.” He frowned again. “Excuse me a moment.”

After he left, Alan leaned in. “I know I sound like a broken record, but I think you have to turn this in, too. Even if Cavill has been released, that thing raises all sorts of questions. Who could smuggle it into the reading room? How could it have stayed where it was without being noticed and for how long? And you don’t have the ability to test it for fingerprints, which the police do.” He put his hand over Rachel’s. “I know Boussicault treated you badly, but he is the law, and he really will know how to use this most effectively.”

Rachel though of how angry Boussicault would be—how angry he would be again. She winced. But then she thought of Giles, whom she’d grown to like despite herself, and who had probably loved LouLou, and who had had hopes and dreams that were ended prematurely by a knife in the chest. And then, because she prided herself on not falling for sentimental clichés, she thought of her belief that solving a crime was a way of ordering the world. And then, because she couldn’t help it, she thought of Giles again.

Benoît reappeared. “Monsieur Cavill has indeed been released.” He sat down.

“How did you find out?” Alan asked.

Benoît gave another, smaller shrug. “I called the commissariat and explained that I was a lawyer recently retained by the British embassy to represent Monsieur Cavill. I asked when I might come to see him. The gardien told me that he had been released and could be reached at his hotel. He even very kindly gave me the address.”

Alan exhaled a sharp cry. “Am I the only law-abiding citizen at this table?”

Benoît waved his hand. “I did nothing illegal.” He turned to look at the women. “And neither will you, I believe. Please promise me that tomorrow morning you will go to the commissariat and hand over this knife to the police. Without this evidence the police may devote themselves to building a case that unintentionally convicts an innocent man—and one that allows the real murderer to walk around free.”

Rachel looked at Magda across the sponge-cake lips. Magda had found the blade, so the decision about what to do with it belonged to her. Rachel tried very hard not to let her face show that she wanted her to take it to Boussicault. Instead, she let it show another fact: that she would stand by her whatever she decided.

Magda chewed thoughtfully for a moment. She put her fork down, swallowed her bite of cake, then wiped her lips. She looked at Alan and Benoît. “How about a compromise?”